this poem doesn't belong in today
it belongs to the marching band
that day in new york near the ferris wheel in coney island
where I had so longed to go I'd forgotten why
and the drummer fell and broke her crown and the crowd loomed in near
the cops calling out to step back we
were on the sidelines in passing
watching, the party suddenly over and yet
still your birthday.
someday I will die.
and her blood on the sidewalk, and whatever happened of
the little drummer girl
will have one fewer witness
one by one by one
till we all pop off into nothingness, waning.
Till I fade utterly,
I will love you in that moment.
(Us silently watching, holding the others
back. Waiting, the red lights swinging
round the hushed crowd.)
And even then,
still.
ONCE
Once I read my poems to some French girls who
didn't understand them
they were young and listened
like lambs might
eyes glazed but excited to be here
amdist the herd
i wished i could know the
sounds of my words
through their ears foreign syllables
unfathomable i wished
i could hear the way
the french do
our course language
our house of the mind
the windows just so
the walkway perhaps too long.
Door rather square.
